


Sing me a song (tell me about the things you're dealing with lately)

by sailingtheLarryship



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Smut, This is honestly just Harry and Louis, enjoy, i don't write music so don't judge me, that's about it, the lyrics are my own but like, the other boys are mentioned but very unimportant, they just went well, um
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-03
Updated: 2015-03-03
Packaged: 2018-03-16 03:12:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3472301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sailingtheLarryship/pseuds/sailingtheLarryship
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: Louis is a pianist and Harry thinks that's hot. That's it, that's the whole prompt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sing me a song (tell me about the things you're dealing with lately)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [theglitterbee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theglitterbee/gifts).



> I think the person who thought of this prompt had in mind something much smuttier and not as fluffy as what I've written but. What can I say? I'm a sucker for cheesy fics and infinite fluff. Hope you like it anyways!

                The thing is, Harry loves a guy who can work his hands. And the way Louis’ fingers skim through the keys, move with a delicacy that shows precision and practice but also care it just—well, it’s just very, very attractive to him. It also doesn’t help that Louis is just beautiful. Someone could take away everything about Louis Tomlinson that makes him Louis Tomlinson—the piano in the center of the room, the softness of his hands, the oversized sweaters, the rolled up jeans with exposed ankles and he’d still be beautiful. He’d still be breathtakingly so with his bluer-than-the-sky eyes, and his sharper- than-glass-cutting cheekbones, and his small smile, and even smaller hands that easily contrasts his overzealous personality.

                That’s why when Niall had told him he’d be willing to help with his song, Harry could hardly believe it. It’s not that their strangers to one another. For one thing, they run around the same crowd. They both like music, all be it very distinct music from one another, but the crowds of all different genres tend to mend together in Uni. They’ve caught each other’s eyes in some crowded gatherings, some sorority parties, some big group dinner. It’s hard to ignore Louis’ presence when he comes into a room. It’s strong, demanding to be felt like emotion. And Harry’s always wanted to smile at him, put down whatever drink he was holding, abandon whatever company he was harvesting, and just go over and introduce himself. He knows Louis knows his name, he knows Louis knows of him. But he’s always wanted more than that. However, something always happens. And as soon as Harry’s looking at him, imagining this picture perfect first impression dangling at the front of his mind, Harry watches Louis walk away. For all that Louis Tomlinson can stand out in a crowd, he can also get easily lost in one. So, it’s never been more than that.

                It’s never been more than Niall mentioning Louis in passing, randomly catching the back of Louis’ oversized jumper hunched in a corner in the Uni’s café with Zayn, going to the school’s talent shows and watching him perform—watching him just sit there with his shoulders a bit hunched, eyes worlds away playing things that sound the way he looks.

                That’s how Harry finds him when he walks into the music room one Friday afternoon at exactly 12pm. He knows that’s when their scheduled to meet anyways, so he doesn’t know why he feels a bit chocked up, words lost somewhere midway through his throat, at the sight Louis sitting over his piano, playing keys Harry’s never heard before but he already wants to make a record of. It’s maybe because a part of him didn’t think he’d show. There’s a thing about Louis Tomlinson people like to say. He’s a talented guy, and he’s great fun, but he’s not very _helpful_.  He doesn’t like collaborations, he doesn’t do them. He’s never, ever, done them in the time Harry’s known about him.

                That’s why Harry was a bit caught off guard when Niall plopped down next to him on the couch one evening, sticking his grubby fingers inside Harry’s popcorn bowl to take some for himself without asking. Harry had glared at him, until he said, “So, Louis Tomlinson’s agreed to work with you. Says to meet him in the music room—you know where that is, right?—Friday in the afternoon.” He couldn’t even be mad that Niall had spoken with his mouth full, spitting parts of kettle corn all over Harry’s face in a way that Niall knows get Harry’s gears turning. He actually couldn’t even speak for a solid five minutes after that, reveling in complete and utter shock. Because all he had told Niall was that he needed help coming up with a melody, was shit at it himself but really wanted to start producing his own music with Liam and then—then Niall had gotten, somehow, Louis Tomlinson to work with him.  Harry hadn’t even asked questions, he’d simply nodded and told Niall to let Louis know he’d be there. He’d be a mad man not to.

                And now Harry is here. He’s here, in the music room, watching the way Louis’ fingers start to move slower and slower against the piano keys, signaling the ending of his song and unable to move from his spot from the front of the room. He’s not usually like this. He’s not usually unsure of what to say and how to act. He’s way over the phase of trying to figure himself out, or even pretending to fit an image society wants him to. He knows what he’s about, he’s confident with himself. He’s Harry Styles and he’s not like, bragging about it or anything, but he’s conscious of the way people look at him. He’s conscious of the way he makes people smile in seconds of being around them. He’s conscious of how loud people scream when he’s in bed with him. He knows his worth, knows his weaknesses and his strengths, but yet standing in a room with Louis Tomlinson, all he feels is weak.

                He tries to shake himself out of it. He squares his shoulders and tries to fix his hair a bit—gives up when his fingers can’t get through it mid-way—and starts walking. As soon as he takes his first step, fierce blue eyes are turning to stare into his, and he’s lost again. He’s very aware that this is the first time they’ve been so close, in a room so quiet. He feels it buzzing everywhere inside him, around him.

                “Harry Styles,” says the boy sitting at the piano, body a bit angled towards Harry. He’s staring. There’s not smile on his face, or emotion trapped in his eyes Harry can easily decipher. But he’s said his name, and somehow, that already has Harry smiling.

                “Hi,” he says a bit sheepish, and he feels like maybe he’s fifteen again pining for the older boys on the football team.

                Louis blinks at him, but doesn’t offer a smile back. Harry gulps a bit, but as long as he keeps looking at Louis’ eyes, he can’t seem to wipe the smile on his face. He takes another step, then another, and suddenly he’s walking towards Louis Tomlinson while Louis Tomlinson stares back. He finally reaches the center of him, and he gulps a bit at the way Louis tilts his head up to get a good look at him, exposing his neck.

                He diverts his eyes, holds up the bag of pastries he brought instead. He stopped by the Uni’s café before heading over, seeing Louis enough times to know what he likes.

                “I bought some, um, scones,” and it doesn’t come out the way anything Harry ever says comes out. When he talks to people, it’s smooth and natural. And what he just said sounded choppy and practice. He almost rolls his eyes at his own self.

                He’s a bit surprised Louis doesn’t, but then again, Louis hasn’t offered more than a blank stare since he’s caught sight of Harry. Harry’s really not sure what to make of that, at all, but he feels himself becoming more and more self-conscious of that.

                “Not hungry,” Louis eventually replies, head still tilted too look up at Harry. But then he’s turning on the bench again, body angled towards the piano and the back of his head facing Harry. “But thank you.”

                Harry stands there awkwardly for a moment, a bit unaware of where to go from there. He doesn’t think he’s ever felt so charged by someone’s presence but also so lost in it too. It’s like there’s all this energy circling around him, but he doesn’t know where to place it, he doesn’t know what to do with it. He looks around for a moment, down the pastries in his hands and then back up to the back of Louis’ head, quiet everywhere around him. He’s not sure how to break that, he’s not even sure what to say if he could bring himself to.

                Suddenly, Louis turns his face back, just enough to give Harry sight of his peripheral. And damn, if that wasn’t just as nice as the whole picture. Harry tries to even his breathes as Louis looks up at him, long lashes covering his bright eyes.

                “Sit?” he asks, but it sounds a bit like a suggestion too.

                Harry easily does, nodding a bit too eagerly and swinging a leg over to occupy the bit of space Louis isn’t. The bench is definitely designed to sit one person, and Louis is tiny, but Harry is not, and he feels heat everywhere where their bodies brush each others. There’s that energy again, doubling, but sat beside him Harry is even more lost. His body is stiff, unaware of close he’s allowed to get, how friendly he can get without crossing invisible lines that stand for so much. He fiddles with his hands n his lap for a bit, pastry bag still clutched on tightly.

                “Did you bring your lyrics?” Louis suddenly asks, and as much as Harry wants to shoot his head up, he’s careful when he looks at Louis. Careful because he doesn’t want to touch where he’s not supposed to, make a move that could blow this whole thing up for him.

                “Um,” he tries to really think for a moment, see something else besides how this up-close Louis Tomlinson indefinable beauty. He’s just—everything. He’s shadows and light, and smooth and rough, and just like something straight out of an artist’s work. No, he’s better than that. Because he’s real, and he’s so close, and essentially they’re breathing the same air.

                “Yeah. _Yes_ ,” he replies instantly, when Louis’ eyebrows a raise a bit as he looks back at Harry expectantly and Harry’s not going to sit around and stare and look like an idiot. He can’t afford that. Not when this is something that has been a long time coming and now it’s here, in Harry’s grasp, and he can’t just let it slip through his fingers.

                He digs inside the pockets of his tight jeans, and hands Louis a little, folded piece of copy paper where he’d scribbled lyrics to. He feels a bit undermined then, and maybe unprepared, but he hands it over with a grin and Louis takes it with a nod a small tilt to his mouth as he shakes his head.

                Their fingers brush over the paper, and Harry has to try and not jolt up at the contact. He doesn’t understand it, how everything just feels electric but it _does_. He wants to do something with that, turn it into something, but Louis doesn’t even seem affected. He just unfolds the piece of paper carefully in small hands and begins to read it. Harry watches his eyes dance through the paper, so calmly, and Harry wonders if he’s the only one who feels it. Just then, he tries to make a bit of space between them. There’s one thing feeling this and not knowing what to do with it, and there’s another being the only going losing his mind over it. He just needs a bit of space, a bit of breathing room that isn’t shared with Louis.

                And just as he’s about to subtly scoot over just enough to make it seem accidental as he put down his bag of pastries, Louis is addressing him.

                “Who did you write this for?”

                Harry looks at him as quickly as he has every other time Louis had directly spoken to him in the last five minutes. Except this time there’s no real smile on his face, but more of an expression of confusion clouding over his expression.

                “Um,” and this time he stumbles not because Louis is asking him a question, but because he’s unsure of the answer. Or, really, he thinks the answer is as unimportant as uninteresting as it sounds. “No one, really.”

                Louis frowns at that, “no one? You just wrote down these words? You realize this is a love song, right? Essentially.”

                And yes, Harry realizes that. But like, so are half of the classics. Harry doubts every good, heartbreaking song has an actual story behind it. He shrugs.

                “Imagination is a wild thing.”

                Louis frowns harder. Before Harry can even think of what to do or say next, he’s ripping up the paper in his hands to small bits that are irreparable. That song is nowhere else. There was a novelty to having words simply scribbled down on a piece of paper, not having it backed up into a word document on his laptop or saved under a note on his iPhone. He realizes how that may have been a bit impractical now, though.

                “What the fuck did you do that for?” his eyes widen, and he’s aware his voice sounds angry, and he doesn’t mean to get mad but shit—maybe he’s a bit mad. Because this isn’t going anything like he imagined it would all those months he’d meet Louis’ eyes over the eyes of other strangers in a crowded room. And now Louis’ just done that, and—people like to talk, okay? Harry’s heard all the reasons why Louis doesn’t do collaborations, but he never wanted any of them to be true.

                Louis flings the bits and pieces of papers of Harry’s hard work behind his back, lets them scatter on the wooden floor beneath them.

                “Because how do you expect me to write a melody for lyrics that are empty,” he’s looking at Harry with a bit of indignation, like maybe he’s a bit angry himself. And Harry’s not sure what to make of that. Mostly, he wants to defend himself. Just because he didn’t pen down words that were of  actual resonance with himself, doesn’t mean they were meaningless.

                Harry’s about to defend himself, when Louis suddenly makes space between the big they have between them, and swings a leg over to straddle the bench and face Harry. Harry’s suddenly forgetting his anger, focusing more on Louis’ comprising position and feeling  that rise of energy expend all around him. He tries not to blink too many times, or look too hard at the way Louis’ thighs straight against the bench as he opens his legs wide, and—fuck. He focuses on Louis’ face, trying to remind himself that on the ground beneath them are the bits of paper Louis ripped up with his work. He’d rather be angry, use that as a distraction, than pay attention to everything else going around in his vivid mind right now.

                “When I write my music, I have to _feel_ something. I can’t just start playing keys and creating something because it sounds pretty. It has to be more than that, if not, it’s no different from anyone else’s work,” Louis straightens up a bit, eyes still held with Harry’s, “anyone can write something that sounds nice, but not everyone can make you feel something through their music.”

                Harry blinks a bit, because—well. He makes a lot of sense, and Harry understands that, but. He did work on those lyrics. He waits a moment, mind still reeling somewhere else when Louis moves back a bit farther.

                “Face me”

                Harry scrunches up his face a bit. “I’m sorry?”

                “Like,” Louis makes wild gestures with his hands that look a bit silly and just like that Harry’s smiling at him again, “turn and face me. Sit the way I’m sitting and face me.”

                 Harry understand, then, and nods his head. He puts the pastries down on the floor—finally—and turns around to straddle the bench in the same Louis is. Although, he’s sure he can’t make it look as appealing as Louis does. They’re face to face then, more space in-between them but somehow the setting feels more intimate. Harry feels that intimacy travel everywhere through his body as Louis nods at him, a bit of an upward tilt to his mouth as he looks at him. The scattered pieces of paper on the floor becoming more and more of a distant, irrelevant, memory.

                “Tell me what you’re thinking,” Louis says.

                Harry thinks Louis really, really doesn’t know what he’s thinking. Not that they’re all dirty thoughts. Some might be sweet. But it’s not like Harry has the guts to say them out loud, and something about their entire exchange, it makes Harry feel like Louis couldn’t be bothered hearing about how Harry doesn’t think he’s ever come across someone as memorizing as Louis. He shrugs instead of saying anything, a bit of a smirk on his mouth.

                Louis rolls his eyes and sighs.

                “Fine,” he resigns, “just throw something at me. A line, a lyric, about whatever is running through your mind. I don’t believe you’re drawing blanks now, but I know it’s easier to communicate through music sometimes.”

                Harry guesses if anyone understands that, it’s Louis. So, he tries to give it a shot. Because he could formulate the right words if he’s trying to think of song lyrics, instead of just blurting out something cheesy like, “I’m thinking about how beautiful you are.” That’s why Harry likes music. It’s poetry, and it makes even the simplest of declarations sound memorable.

                Almost as if Louis can see right through Harry, he says, “don’t over think. Just say.”

                Harry sighs and closes his eyes. He can do this. He can just—let go, a bit. If it keeps Louis looking at him a bit longer, like he’s hanging off every word he says, he can do it.

                He opens his eyes again, finds Louis staring still, and says, “I hang on every look you’ve sent my way.”

                Louis blinks, but there’s a softness that comes over his features that Harry didn’t see before. He feels a bit of satisfaction course through him. And he doesn’t hesitate when Louis says, in a hushed tone, “again.”

                “There’s a silence in them I can’t explain.”

                Louis nods, “again.”

                “But it brings peace to me, every time our eyes meet. Because there are things better shown than said.”

                Louis whispers, “One more.”

                “And still I hear you loud and clear. Over everyone who’s ever come and disappeared.”

                Then Louis is turning, he’s turning so fast Harry barely has time to scoot back and avoid getting him in the face by one of Louis’ feet. Before Harry can ask what he’s doing, Louis’ fingers are on the keys. And fuck—this has to be detrimental to his health. It has to be. Because the way he feels when he watches Louis play, a silent, and peaceful melody filling up every blank space inside the room with something like color on a painting, it fills Harry’s bones with something agonizing unforgettable.

                He just sits frozen for a bit, unable to handle more. If he thought he’d never be able to get over thoughts of Louis Tomlinson, he doesn’t know how he’s ever supposed to forget him now. He doesn’t think he will. He doesn’t think it’s possible.

                He snaps out of it when he realizes he’s not just here to watch Louis play, as much time as he can spend doing that, he’s here to play with him. And so he turns himself, energy still buzzing around him but not as chaotic, a lot more peaceful. He doesn’t know how he finds the right moment, but he does. He finds that one key and he starts, the words he’s spoken sticking to his memory much easier than anything he’s ever written down. The song flows through them, Louis playing effortlessly, and Harry singing right beside him. It’s short, of course, because there’s not much of it done, but Harry’s never felt more satisfied with his work before, more proud of his very self. He thinks he has Louis to accredit for that.

                Louis’ hands stop playing in the same way Harry watches his fingers work down slowly to a halt before, and when he peers up at Harry, it’s the first time Louis has properly given him since they’ve met. When Louis thinks about it, it’s the first smile he’s ever gotten from Louis. Even all those times of meeting each other’s eyes for a couple seconds at a time never brought him that. It was always too quick, too sudden, and too heavy. Now things feel light, and Harry looks back down with a genuine smile.

                “That was great,” Louis says.

                “You really are brilliant,” Harry says at the same time.

                They both shut their mouths at the same time, looking at one another before Harry bursts into a fit of nervous laughter. It’s nothing like he’s actual laughter, that’s big and boisterous and he has to cover his mouth from stifling the noise, but it’s still real. He still feels it everywhere, can sense the happiness coming from it.       

                Louis looks about the same. He giggles just as much, and then he’s turning his face for a moment, hiding whatever it is he feels the need to hide from Harry before looking back, smile still set on his lips.

                “Thank you,” he whispers, and for the first time since they’ve been in this room, working together, Louis is the one who looks modest and unsure. Harry doesn’t think he likes that look on him. He wants him to know, he means it.

                “I mean it,” he grabs for Louis’ hand on his lap with confidence he hadn’t been able to get a hold of before. But something’s changed. He knows that. And he thinks Louis does too, if the way he opens his palms up for Harry’s own hand to fit in his is any indication.

                “Like, this song is only going to be so good because you’ve been kind enough to agree to help me with it. Thank you.”

                Louis looks at him for a moment, and silence looms over them again. This time it’s not uncomfortable though, and Harry doesn’t find himself struggling on deciding where to look, what to do with his hands, or what to say. He knows, there’s nothing to say. He knows he wants his hands to be in Louis’. And he knows that all he wants to be looking at, is Louis.

                Just like a switch, Harry feels Louis feel it too. And then it happens. It’s not too sudden or rushed, or slow. It happens in perfect timing, Harry thinks. Happens the way it’s supposed to, with Louis’ hand extracting itself from Harry’s only to glide up his forearm. Gentle touch of skin on skin until he reaches his neck. Then he grasps, he clutches and then he’s moving closer. He moves closer and closer until he possible can’t get any closer unless he morphed himself inside Harry. Until he’s straddling Harry’s hips instead of the bench’s, and he looks so much better than Harry’s imagination gave him credit for. And both his hands are then lost at the back of Harry’s hair, right at the nape of his neck, and his chest is pressed right up against Harry’s. Harry closes his eyes and counts to three, and then it’s like everything he’d been feeling explodes the moment their lips meet.

                It’s fire and ice at the same time. It runs chills down his spine but it makes his skin feel like it’s burning. And he wants to be gentle and careful, be the way Louis looks when he plays but at the same time he wants to destroy him. At the end, Harry can’t help himself.

                It’s clumsy, and a clatter of noise as he pushes off the bench with his hands underneath Louis’ thighs holding him up, but still gentle as he places Louis on top of the piano and parts his lips with his tongue. The taste of Louis, is in correlation with his looks. It’s intoxicating as much as it is addicting, and Harry keeps taking and taking until he’s gasping for his own breath, hands losing themselves everywhere he can get them on.

                He moves his way to Louis’ skin, the scent of him filling his nose as he kisses and nips delicately. He’s latching his lips onto Louis’ skin, Louis squirming underneath him, and panting. He pushes Harry’s shoulders a bit, and Harry relents getting the picture. He moves only enough that he’s face to face with Louis, still just a fraction of space between them.

                Louis blinks, eyes watery and face flushed as his hands skim up Harry’s back, riding up his shirt a bit, just enough to get lost back in his hair. He tugs a bit, and Harry easily goes with it, closing his eyes and groaning.

                “Shit,” Louis says, and his voice sound so different than Harry’s heard this entire time. “As much as I really want you to fuck me, right now, over this piano—I don’t have anything. And if you tell me you do, you’ve killed the entire moment.”

                Harry laughs, tilting his chin back down and nuzzling his nose a bit on Louis’ arm. He didn’t bring anything, he’s not that presumptuous. Although, if he’s honest, this was always at the forefront of his mind when he thought about finally meeting Louis Tomlinson.

                “I don’t,” he answers honestly, and he sees Louis smile when he sneaks a glance at him where his face is getting lost nuzzling Louis’ arm. Louis smiles back.

                “Doesn’t mean you still can’t fuck me. My place?”

                Harry doesn’t need to be offered twice. He doesn’t even need to be given an explanation on how the Louis that is looking at him now, all mischievous and excruciatingly sexy, is not the same Louis he was when Harry first walked in. He doesn’t care, really. He likes both. And he really likes the idea of being inside Louis, so the sooner he can get there, the better it is for him. He’s still has all that energy, he should put it to good use.

                He picks Louis up again to bring him to his feet. Louis giggles through it, and slaps his arm lightly as he calls him an idiot and turns to get out the door. He gives Harry a look, where he bites his lip and looks him up and down slowly, that could honestly kill Harry right then and there. But he gets through, instead takes the hand Louis is holding out for him and walks out to head back to Louis’ place. Pieces of paper with scribbled words on them entirely forgotten.

               

\--

                It’s a bit overwhelming, getting to be intimate with Louis in two ways in such a short period of time. He was intimate with his soul back in the music room. The way he spoke about what he was thinking looking at him sat right across from him, the same way he always saw him standing, being, right across from him at all those different places at all those different times. He opened himself to that intimacy, and Louis did too. They shared something that wasn’t physical, but it was intimate.

                Now, back in Louis’ small flat across Uni, he gets to share physical intimacy with Louis too. And it’s just, mind baffling. Because he’s always wanted both—he never knew how much he wanted both until today, but he did. And now he’s getting them.

                He takes his time undressing him, looking and touching and feeling him. And Louis does too, fingertips grazing across Harry’s skin, tracing his tattoos. They were eyeing each other with something like a hunger, and then they got right into it, crashing their lips against each other’s. And now Harry is opening up Louis, three fingers deep as Louis squirms underneath him, sweat beginning to shine his skin.

                “Harry,” he moans, and Harry has to hold back from combusting at the sound of his wrecked voice, “Harry, please.”

                Harry nods frantically because yes, he wants this too. “Okay, babe.”

                With the bit of control over his movement he has left, he manages to extract his fingers from Louis and reach for the condom. Louis beats him to it though, ripping the condom open with his teeth and rolling it down Harry’s dick at a distressingly slow pace. Harry’s mouth forms a bit of an ‘o’ and his eyes screw shut at the feeling of Louis working him send electric currents running through him.

                He only opens his mouth when he hears Louis whisper in a voice so surreal, “H, fuck me, please.”

                There’s no way Harry could say no to that even if he wanted to. So, he doesn’t even bother trying to fight it. Instead, he just readies himself for it. He opens his eyes and looks down at Louis with his legs spread wide, eyes hooded and lazy smile on his face. And it’s all for _him_ , all for Harry. He reaches down to peck Louis’ lips lightly, crowding his space with his arms at either side of him, holding his weight, before Louis reaches down and grabs a hold of his dick. He guides Harry inside, and Harry’s breath knocks out of him as he feels the tightness of Louis clench around him.

                “Fuck,” he spits out, his face dropping down to Louis’ neck as he guides himself the rest of the way in. He hears Louis panting as hard as Harry is trying not to, hot breaths ghosting over Harry’s ear. Harry tries to move, tries to just get a grip on something because right now everything feels too good to be fucking true. He feels Louis’ hands come and tug at the curls at the nape of his neck, forcing Harry to look up at him.

                He looks gentle, and soft, as he looks down at Harry who’s having a hard time remembering how to please someone in bed. Though, it’s always so easy for him every other time.

                “Harry, please move before I fucking lose my mind.”

                Harry laughs a bit, but it does the trick. It feels fine, it feels okay. It’s not like he’s performing for Louis Tomlinson like he felt he might’ve had to when he first entered that music room. It was never like that. Louis wasn’t judging or looking to scrutinize him. He was looking to listening to him and what he had to offer. Maybe Harry fluked on that bit the first time around in the music room, but he won’t make the same mistake in the bed room.

                He lifts himself up a bit, enough to grab at Louis’ hips, Louis wrapping his legs around his waist, before pulling almost all the way out, and slamming back in. It rocks the headboard of Louis’ bed against the wall, and heaves out a ridiculous moan from Louis’ mouth—something come out of a porno. It’s almost so obscene, Harry’s not sure it’s genuine until he does it again, and one more time after that, and Louis really can’t seem to control his volume. Harry’s a bit proud that Louis’ neighbors may know his name by tomorrow if they’re home at the moment.

                He keeps going just like that, small grunts escaping his own mouth, until Louis wraps his legs around a bit tighter and Harry gets the hint. He extracts Louis’ legs from around his waists in smooth movements, never slipping out of him, and brings his legs over his shoulders. Then he picks up speed, slamming in him with as much force but as a much faster pace.

                It sends Louis overboard, and he’s screaming out a string of Harry’s name as he wraps a hand around himself and pumps to the rhythm Harry’s created. Harry would do it for him, but he’s busy losing himself in his orgasm, seeing starts behind his lids when he finally does come. Louis comes seconds after, and Harry can’t even be bothered to mind getting all sticky and wet with Louis’ come because he collapses right on top of him, unable to do much more.

                Louis laughs beneath him, but doesn’t move to get Harry off, and Harry thinks cuddling and laughter after sex is a pretty good thing. He nuzzles his cheek to Louis’ chest, smiling and lifting his arms enough where his hands can play with Louis’ fluffed hair. Louis brings his arms to wrap around Harry, squeezing tight and gliding up and down in a soothing gesture.

                “I’ve wanted you to do that to me for months,” Louis says.

                And that, Harry looks up at him, chin propped up against Louis’ chest. “Really?” he has to ask, because if that’s true then that means Louis remembers. Harry was honestly starting to believe Louis hadn’t. He hadn’t remembered every time they met eyes, every time that shortly after they lost each other. And maybe that’s dumb, considering everything that’s happened, the lyrics Louis coerced out of Harry on the spot, but he hadn’t mentioned it. Had barely looked at him like he recognized him when he finally looked at him.

                “I thought you like—didn’t remember.”

                Instead of rolling his eyes like Harry thinks Louis would, Louis smiles fondly down at him, bringing a hand up to play with Harry’s overgrown hair.

                “Of course I remembered. I just—I didn’t really know what to say. Or to expect, really. I wanted you to be one way, you know? Different than what I’d heard you’d be like.”

                Harry knows the feeling. He knows it because it was exactly what he’d been feeling since Niall told him Louis was interested in working with him. But he wasn’t disappointed, not in the least. He hopes Louis wasn’t either.

                “And?” he asks, because he has to know.

                Louis’ smile widens, “and I found a lot more than I was bargaining for.”

                Harry can’t resist. Because they’re cheesy and maybe a lot of a cliché, but Harry likes Louis. He likes the Louis resting right beneath him more than the Louis he cooked up in his head with all those months of silent looks. So, he kisses him. Louis kisses back with the same emotion Harry feels, and it’s just—Harry wants this long term. He’s going to make it that. He wants everyone to just sit back and watch.

                “Harry,” Louis says as they pull back. Harry hums.

                “Harry,” Louis says a bit rougher, and Harry looks up at him to see he’s still smiling, “we’re covered in come. And still have a song to finish.”

                Harry hums again, rests his head back down in Louis’ chest.

                “There’s time for that,” he smiles against his skin.

                Louis laughs and pushes him off anyway, and Harry lets him because maybe they should clean up. But he reminds Louis after they’re clean and lying down together, limbs tangled in limbs, that there’s still time for the rest. And he’s not just talking about the song.


End file.
